


bush medicine

by thisisagoodusername



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, maori junkrat headcanons, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisagoodusername/pseuds/thisisagoodusername
Summary: junkrat and hanzo are sent on a mission together. during the mission, something goes awry, forcing them to interact with each other for much longer than either would prefer.





	bush medicine

**Author's Note:**

> i headcanon junkrat as half maori. its just me though!  
> atea mahana is the middle name of my favorite celebrity, who is also maori. if you know who he is, its our cool secret!  
> i dont know why this pairing doesnt have more stuff. if you find any more, send it my way.  
> please leave a review if you enjoyed reading!

It starts with a blast.

The resounding explosion is powerful enough to practically shake the marrow in Hanzo's bones; despite the fact that the actual sound itself is muffled by the stone walls to be nothing more than a distant-sounding din, the residual vibrations continue ricochet through his insides, forcing him to grit his teeth and clench his fists. “Junkrat,” he barks, his voice harsh, accusatory and demanding, “what have you done?”

This particular mission is one of their simpler; so simple, in fact, that it was considered an excellent opportunity to test the usefulness of the metaphorically fresh-faced Junkrat and Roadhog, whose perceived volatility may have otherwise compromised a more delicate mission. Overwatch's newest recruits weren't even _consenting_ recruits: they were only participating in these “heroic” endeavors because the alternative was spending the rest of their lives in a maximum security prison.

The accused stands behind him, holding his hands up defensively with eyebrows raised towards his hairline when Hanzo turns to give him a terrible glare. “Wasn't me, mate, I swear it,” Junkrat says, eyes wide with enough convincing, startled confusion that Hanzo can only take it as genuine ignorance. “Only thing I got with me powerful enough to pack that much of a kaboom is the tire, and she's still right here with us. Say, how the hell was I supposed to blow somethin' up what sounded like five blocks away when I've been here, behind you, this whole time? I get that I'm a jack of all trades, no doubt, but I specialize in demolition, not teleportation--”

A crackle over the comms. Hanzo assumes Junkrat's hearing is too shot to hear the faint murmur of voices, so he takes it upon himself to respond. “Quiet,” Hanzo snaps, holding a gloved hand in Junkrat's face to shut him up. Junkrat's eyebrows knit and his scowl deepens, but he does not protest, grumbling and crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _\--utmost importance. Hanzo, Junkrat, do you copy? We need your confirmation that you've heard us._ ”

“I hear you,” Hanzo responds. He hovers his finger over the receiver button, pausing for a moment to breath and collect himself; between Junkrat's incessant yammering for the last two hours (he's repeated some stories up to three times), the stress of the mission and now the unknown explosion coupled with the disheartening message, Hanzo feels drawn and quartered, pulled in different directions and forced to acknowledge different unpleasantries. This is a stark change from the months of isolation, solitude and exile he is used to; working as a member of a team based objective is so vastly different from his own past sniper work. There is no simply leaving and saving his own skin. “Yes, I can hear you, but I have not received your message.”

“ _You and Junkrat may be in a compromised situation; the route that Talon's agents are taking was different from the original. You need to get out of there; use the back door and move east behind the buildings; Genji and McCree are at the point closest to you that is still clear._ ” The voice in the comms belongs to the doctor, Mercy; he can hear the strain in her normally gentle lilt.

“Gotcha,” Junkrat affirms, and Hanzo is surprised he's heard. He's lost an arm and a leg to his love for explosives, but apparently, not his hearing. “Say, I could always leave a little surprise for these Talon blokes, like a little booby trap round the main entrance—the moment they open that door, they'll trip a wire, and one, or two, or thirteen mines kablam and bring this whole place down with 'em--”

“ _There's no time, Junkrat,_ ” Mercy pleads, her voice stretched thin with worry, and her sibilance crackles with interference over the communicators. “ _It's imperative you leave, now._ ”

“I understand,” Hanzo repeats with the proper amount of gravity that the situation calls for. “We understand,” he corrects, and he matches Junkrat's annoyed pout with a scowl of his own. “Hanzo, Junkrat out.”

“Wonder what all the fuss is about?” Junkrat muses, his frag launcher slung over his shoulder with an almost careless disregard for its dangerously precarious place, a hand at his hip as he purses his lips and glances towards the ceiling.

“It does not matter. It's best we move with haste,” Hanzo says evenly, slinging his arrows over his shoulder. He tightens the length of cloth in his hair, eyes narrowing as he best surveys the options; the front door they entered through hours prior might lead to compromised ground, and the window is a dangerous drop, especially for someone with unsteady legs like Junkrat. “We'll exit through back, as Mercy recommended. Leave a mine connected to a trap at the entrance of the alley. If anyone follows us, we'll be warned.”

“Yeah, yeah, can it, Arrows—somethin' ain't quite right,” Junkrat murmurs, cupping his free hand to his ear. Hanzo scoffs; what could a madman with demolition-dimmed hearing sense that he couldn't? “Hear that scuffling?”

Hanzo humors him. He does not know why he has decided to do this given their possible impending death. Junkrat is right; there a sound coming from the roof, but Hanzo's ears are trained to know that nothing that light could come from a normal human, let alone a brazen, clumsy Talon operative.

“There's no time. It's likely--” A heavy thud directly above them finishes Hanzo's sentence; he immediately is on the defensive, and Junkrat looks the same. The distant patter on the roof is now very distinctly heavy footfalls directly on the floor above. Who could have managed to get on the roof before the first floor? The sniper, the Widowmaker, perhaps, but Hanzo has since trained himself to listen for the whistle of her grappling hook as she searches for perches and targets.

Junkrat's fingers itch on the trigger of his launcher. Hanzo nocks an arrow and moves into the shadows in front of the stairs; the first shine of a glowing green light makes him drop the arrow to the floor with a clatter, horrified that he would raise a weapon to his brother—again.

“Genji?” he asks, awe-struck, squinting at the dimmed green reflecting against the chrome-plates covering his body.

“You weren't at the rendezvous point!” Genji yells, and the robotic echo in his voice does little to cut through his apparent panic. “I thought—I thought something might have happened to you on the way here,” he reasons, and Junkrat frowns and grumbles as he's blatantly not included in Genji's fraternal worry, “and I came looking. We need to leave—it isn't safe here.”

“What's happening?” Hanzo asks, worry edging into his fringes of his forced calm as he begins to move with urgency, following Genji towards the window.

“I'll tell you when we're safe,” Genji promises, and as he pries open the rotted wood beam around the windows, the second explosion erupts directly below them.

 

Hanzo comes to second; Junkrat has beaten him to first, but Junkrat has also lived through the nuclear apocalypse. Hanzo groans tiredly and feels his throat constrict as he grits his teeth and attempts to sit up; Junkrat stops him, snaps his fingers in front of his eyes, and practically pries his eyelids back.

Hanzo shoves him away with less force than he would have liked. He does not want to consider the germs lurking beneath Junkrat's fingernails getting anywhere near his corneas. His arms feel heavy and there's a strange, raw throb in the back of his head, muffling his hearing and his judgment. He has been in fights, and he's even been knocked out, but he has yet to have suffered the aftereffects of an explosion. “Do not touch me,” he spits as he tiredly sits up, and Junkrat raises his hands in feigned innocence.

“Hadda look at your pupils.” Junkrat justifies. “I was checking if you were concussed, _mate_. But now I ain't so against giving you a concussion myself.”

Hanzo grimaces at him but digs the heels of his palms into his eyesockets, his fingers uncoordinated and dull. “How long have I been unconscious?” Hanzo grumbles, groggily reaching for the gourd at his belt. His fingers find nothing; the flask was shattered during the explosion, then. Junkrat sees Hanzo's bobbing adam's apple and his inquisitive fingers searching for the ghost of his flask in thirst; he takes a long drink out of the canteen strapped to his belt and re-caps the lid without offering anything to Hanzo.

“You? Not so long, I s'pose. You actually came to a few moments after I did, meself. Your tin can, on the other hand,” he says, jerking a dirty thumb at the pile of concrete and rubble to their left.

Hanzo's intuition and his actual understanding of the situation refuse to work in tandem; there's a nervous fear eating its way through his gut, prying apart his ribs like the broken bow of a sunken ship when he makes the groggy mental connection that Junkrat said _tin can_ which means _omnic_ which means _Genji_ which means _Genji is hurt_. He snaps to attention, earning a startled, shrill noise from Junkrat, and he throws himself at the pile, breaking nails and scraping palms as he scrabbles through the concrete and drywall to unearth his brother.

Right arm comes first. A mangled sheath of visible gore and sparking wire, mashed between two slabs of concrete. Following his arm to his shoulder, he shoves a pile of rubble away from Genji's battered and dented chest, carefully cradling his baby brother's neck as he moves his head out of the dust and rocks.  
Unresponsive. Hanzo ducks down to hear for a heartbeat, the persistent lock of hair always framing his face falling over his eyes, and Hanzo takes his head back in shame when he realizes Genji has no heart to beat, no lungs to breathe with. He did it. He's done it again. Killed his brother. Gotten his brother killed.

“That's a doozy,” Junkrat says with a low whistle, like a man might admire the handiwork of a mechanic. “A real piece'a work. Smells like shit, too, but not as bad as a real corpse,” Junkrat grimaces, waving his hand in front of his face. Genji does smell like hot machinery and rubber. It makes Hanzo's eyes water and his throat constrict.

“We must get him to Dr. Ziegler,” Hanzo says, and he hates the way his typically even baritone cracks and warbles with desperation. He already chose his pride over Genji's life once, and he will never do it again.

“Hey, you tell me, Arrows. Walled in. Building collapsed—roof went straight down. No way out,” Junkrat explains, unbridled optimism bleeding into the edges of his hoarse voice, “'less we _blow_ ourselves a way out--”

“ _No_ ,” Hanzo hisses. “No more explosions. You may not value your life, but I value his.”

Junkrat's tone drops as quickly as his expression. He frowns, his lips pursed together in a pout, and he shrugs, turns on his pegleg, and drops his gangly body into a messy, cross-legged pile.

Hanzo turns his attention back to Genji, ignoring Junkrat's pseudo-whispered complaints and the occasional short cackle at a joke he cracks at Genji's expense. He nervously smooths fingers over the faceplate covering his nose and mouth, wincing at the way the warmth of his human hands leave foggy fingerprints over the sleek chrome. He can see his reflection, despite the distortion of the metal to fit Genji's profile. He closes his eyes tightly.

The green glow indicates Genji is still alive. It is faint, but the pulsing beat of it, fading in and out, like a beacon, is enough to make him take a shuddering breath and shake his head, gritting his teeth. It is not a good solution. It is simply his only solution.

He forces a finger under the panel of armor for Genji's left pectoral muscle. He exhales, strains his wrist, and the paneling comes free with an echoing clang. He does the same for the rest, gazing in horror at the machinery before him.

Wires. Cogs. Circuitry and microchips. This is no human being. There is a precambrian sort of revulsion rising in him to know that this _thing_ is not alive, but simply imitates life. He forces the terrible thoughts out of his head; Genji is his brother. Flesh and blood—once, at least.

“I didn't know you were a mechanic!”

Hanzo inhales sharply, realizing Junkrat is leaning over him, his chin practically perched on his shoulder. He shoves him away, growling, “leave me be.”

“Oh, 's all fine with me to keep pokin' around in there if ya wanna kill 'im,” Junkrat singsongs, reclining against a particularly nicely shaped pile of broken mortar. “But you're right. You know everythin'. Don't need nobody's help, 'specially not mine.”

“And what do you know of machines, _Rat_?” Hanzo seethes, tightening his hands into fists. Junkrat cackles, kicking his legs in manic glee, bringing his mismatched hands to his mouth to stifle his occasional joyful giggle at Hanzo's ignorance to his brilliance. Or perceived brilliance.

“Mate, they don't call me _Junkrat_ for nothin'. Junk. Stuff. Parts. Scrap. I make stuff as good as I destroy it--'course, I like doin' one more over the other. Like that tiny bearded bastard's always sayin': ' _build em up, break em down_.'”

Hanzo is silent.

“I got a pretty good hand at doctorin', too! Ain't no nice winged angels out there healin' lepers with magic yellow lasers in Junkertown,” Junkrat says, and his cheerfully maniacal diatribe drops an octave in apparent, actual anger before immediately picking back up again. “You learn to fix yourself up, or you die. Whichever one's more convenient for ya. See the arm?” He wiggles his fingers. The hinges of his joints creak in protest and the orange paint chips, sending a tiny flake fluttering towards the ground. “Did it meself! The amputation, that is. Lemme tell ya, if the bone's already broken, cutting through the rest of it's a doozy. Built the fake right after, one-armed, cauterized crispy, still smellin' like a hot midday barbie. The leg was easier to fix up, though.” He pauses. He looks left and right, leaning forward in a whisper as if worried someone besides Hanzo and his dying brother can hear him. “Land mine took it six feet from the rest of me. Clean. Almost had it entirely cauterized too. Cross section, like them fancy anatomical diagrams you see up in unis and whatnot. There really is a big guy up above lookin' out for me.” He throws his head back and cackles.

Hanzo breathes through his nose, gagging at the phantom smells of burnt flesh, although that smell might actually be Junkrat's burnt hair. It's obvious that Junkrat is reciting his extensive medical resume in an attempt to sway Hanzo into letting him help Genji; it's the boating, his exaggeratedly confident body language, the annoying orange hand creeping closer to Genji's open chassis every time Junkrat takes a breath. He reminds Hanzo of a mad scientist.

“Gimme a try. I'll fix him up, he'll be good as new. Better than he was 10 minutes ago. Better than he was 'fore you stuck a knife in his guts.”

Hanzo strikes him a look that could curdle blood.

“Okay, bad joke. What'd'ya got to lose?”

Hanzo's expression softens. He looks back at Genji, all wires and metal, a horrible reminder that he is nothing more than a mechanical husk powered by disintegrating nuclei, that in the the base of his neck is a supercomputer to replace the dead brain tissue, that Hanzo thrust upon him a fate worse than death: a loss complete and utter of humanity.

“If he dies,” Hanzo says, his voice warbling, “I will kill you myself.”

Junkrat spits in his hand and extends it for a shake. “Lookin' forward to it. Deal.”

 

Junkrat used the engine for his tire to make a makeshift powerbank to aid in his repairs. When Hanzo saw him remove the wheel from his back and pry apart the wires with his bare hands, he almost considered killing them all, right now, as to spare them a painful death blown to tiny pieces because of Junkrat's careless negligence. The comms are broken; Hanzo busies himself attempting to repair them, if only to keep his hands occupied so he doesn't snatch Genji from Junkrat's disgusting hands or break Junkrat's nose over his knee. Junkrat, true to his word, works diligently; he uses wiring from his bombs to repair torn filaments in Genji's limbs and stops the bleeding with a makeshift cauterizer thrown together from things in his utility belt and the charge on one of his mines. He cannot make heads or tails of the more complicated, delicate equipment powering Genji's internal life support, but he can fix the strictly mechanical parts of his injuries, or at least keep Genji alive until Mercy and Torbjorn can repair him.

Hanzo used to assume he was called a rat because he looked like one, but he begins to suspect it may be because of his fidgeting, tittering and all around restlessness even when engrossed in a task. His head is bowed at an awkward angle as he sticks his tongue out in concentration, delicately reconnecting two wires with care and precision few would attribute to an arsonist. He signs and stretches, rolling his head on his shoulders to work out the stress in his muscles before he goes back to his previous stance, brow furrowed in concentration. His spindly fingers tap in an incessant drum against Genji's armor.

“Speakin' of loss of life and limb,” Junkrat inquires, hands moving to tighten a tourniquet over Genji's upper arm, “how'd you lose your legs?”

Hanzo glowers at Junkrat. He will not humor him. He seethes silently and attempts to force the latch of the communicator's battery pack back down.

“C'mon, mate. I told you my leg story. You gotta tell me yours.”

Hanzo slams the communicator down. He may have broken it further.

“I will not,” Hanzo seethes, “humor the mad ramblings of a foul-mouthed, simple-minded criminal. Telling the story will not aid in you assisting Genji and not telling you will not hinder it. I am not swapping personal tales with a burnt madman or even entertaining the delusion that we are anything more than associates by chance.”

The words leave his mouth almost unintentionally, and he is caught off guard with how indubitably harsh he was. Insults come easy, especially around Junkrat. A vile tongue, indeed; he's almost mortified the insults and vitriol came unprompted and totally naturally. He's tired. He's worried. He's on edge, jaw clenched tight enough to produce an ache in his temple and grind his teeth together.

Junkrat is saving his brother's life. Junkrat has also lost his limbs, albeit in a much stupider manner. Junkrat may have only been curious.

Junkrat, by Genji, looks ready to retort after a moment of shocked indignation. Hanzo cuts him off with a tired exhale of breath, too forceful to be a sigh, too irritable. He raises his hand, and lowers it; he has to wrestle with his pride to force his voice to come forth.

“An accident. When I was a young man, and Genji was still...with me. Both of them had to be amputated at the knee. That is all I will tell you.”

Junkrat's retort seizes in his throat and he actually has to choke and cough to clear it. He pounds on his chest a few times, wheezing, and he takes a deep breath and holds it. He looks almost lamenting, for a moment, eyes downcast and mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.

“But both of 'em are fakes?”

“Yes.”

“Then it looks like I still got a leg up on ya.” Junkrat slaps the non-peg leg, cackles, and Hanzo feels his patience wear so thin he nearly crushes the communicator in his bare hand.

Hanzo gives up. The communicators circuitry is burnt and charred. They will simply have to wait for a rescue or until Genji is strong enough for them to leave him while they attempt to find a way out and bring back help.

Junkrat's work is barbaric, rudimentary and insulting to the Shimada family line, but it is functional. Hanzo watches him stoically as Junkrat knocks the dent out of a plate and fits it back into place, bolting it tightly. Junkrat has very clearly done this before—there's a sureness to his work, a deftness, that indicates he's not only done this for himself, but others. Hanzo momentarily ponders Junkrat, irradiated and irrational, actually saving a fellow Junker's life with his medical assistance. It sees absurd.

“How old are you, Rat?” he asks.

Junkrat does not respond. He mutters to himself, and shakes his head. He uses the spring from his trap to set a broken part in Genji's system, giving a satisfied hum when it snaps into place.

“Junkrat.”

He hums a little more. Is that Bach?

“JUNKRAT.”

Junkrat visibly jumps and makes a startled noise, clutching his heart and leaving grimy, oily fingerprints against his jutting collarbone as he heaves a breath. “Scared the shit out of me, Arrows. Bloody hell. Nearly pissed myself.”

“I asked how old you were,” Hanzo repeats quietly, narrowed eyes focused on Junkrat as he shakes the butterflies out of his head and returns to his noble work.

“Eh. I dunno. Twenty five?”

Hanzo gags. “Twenty five?!”

“Well, I mean, give or take a year or two. Can't always be too sure. I don't got no birth certificate or nothin'. I don't really know when I was born, but I reckon it was 'round 2051 or so, five years 'fore the big _Kaboom_. That'd make me twenty five, roundabouts.” He whistles a jaunty tune, lifting Genji's limp arm so he can begin work on repairing the joint in his elbow; bone, tissue and robotic parts smear lymph, blood and oil across his hands.

Hanzo is not reserved to speak his mind, but it seems strange to insult the man saving his brother. Tactless, for a man so typically obsessed with tact. “You do not…” he looks away, sighing, attempting to deaden the blow he's chosen to inflict, “You do not quite look your age.”

“Yeah? I get that.” Junkrat is impervious to insults on his character. News agencies call him a criminal and a terrorist worth of execution. Hanzo possibly insinuating that he's ugly must be lilliputian in comparison. “'S the radiation, the sun. Burns your skin somethin' awful, gets you all fucked up real quick. Junkertown folk only live so long. I'd be coastin' through my ripe ol' middle age bout now, if I was still back in 'Stralia. Miss Mercy's doctorin' added heaps of years for me, or so she said. Keep it up at Overwatch, she told me, an' we'll have you reachin' those average life expectancies in no time. Guess the world's gonna have to stick with ol' Jamison a little longer, huh?” he threatens, flashing a horrible sneer.

Hanzo looks at him critically. Despite his previous disbelief, he can see evidence of Junkrat's claims: the eyes. Sunken and dark rimmed, but not quite as tired as his. The stupid, crooked smile. Youthful ignorance and exuberance. Past the dirt, the soot, the manic expression and the burns, Junkrat looks reasonably and actually young, if not just haggard and worn. He catches a glimpse of it when Junkrat tilts his head as he puzzles over how to reattach the bone to the end-effector that moves Genji's elbow, lips pursed in thought and brow furrowed over his tired eyes, murmuring possible solutions to himself soundlessly, tracing a finger over his lip as he decides upon a course of action. Hanzo had only been observing his hands (or hand, he should say), carefully working, deftly repairing. It looks aged beyond twenty five; the broken nails, knobby knuckles and scarred palm. Junkrat is not particularly healthy looking, but there is some amount of wiry strength lurking beneath his bony frame. If he was in a well tailored suit, he muses, he might be taken as svetle rather than skinny. But Junkrat will likely prefer death over ever even wearing a proper shirt.

“Jamison?” Hanzo repeats carefully, testing the syllables out. Junkrat's accent is difficult to understand, sometimes, especially with the cracking.

“Yeah. My 'real' name. Jamison Fawkes. Jamison Atea Mahana Fawkes, if you're the Queen.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving a low sound of understanding. It's a reasonably respectable name for a detestable person. The middle name strikes him as incongruous, however. “ _Atea Mahana_?”

“Yeah. Te reo. Māori—Half. Me mum gave me that name, 'fore she carked it in the explosion along with my Da and everyone else I knew. After that, was just me, my shadow, and...naw, just me and my shadow. Roadie joined the party late.”

“I am not familiar with the language,” Hanzo admits. “What does it mean?” He isn't sure why he cares. He shouldn't.

Junkrat grins. He has a gold tooth. How had Hanzo not noticed that before? It glints when he speaks, reflecting a light source that Hanzo wasn't even sure was in the dark rubble with them. “Heat of the Universe.”

 

The conversation ends very abruptly after that. Junkrat successfully stops Genji's bleeding, stabilizes his systems, and Hanzo keeps his nervous hands busy by tightening the knots in his gi and buffing a scratch out of Stormbow. He feels unusually helpless, held at the mercy of a murderous madman, forced into a situation where no amount of brutal combat training, stealth and sniping ability would help.

Jesse McCree eventually comes to their rescue. When Genji failed to return, he set out after him; only able to get close enough after all the Talon operatives patrolling the area had been dispatched, the rescue is surprisingly simple once they're actually located. Overwatch has more than enough advanced equipment free them from the rubble within a matter of minutes and Mercy immediately comes to whisk Genji to safety. Hanzo and Junkrat are treated for no more than bruises and scrapes by Winston, who reminds them that he expects a very detailed report on the situation after they arrive back at the base. Before they board the hovercraft back to the Gibraltar base, Junkrat turns his head, upsetting the shock blanket Lucio has placed over his tall shoulders, and gives Hanzo a self-satisfied grin and a wink. Hanzo looks aghast, and turns away, embarrassed.

 

He should say something. He should, at least, thank him, as is custom for a man of his prestige. A gift of the utmost sincerity—an echo to what he once honored Genji with on his annual pilgrimage to the home he lost. It has to be personal; it seems blase to do it any other way. Hanzo contemplates calligraphy, his lip curling up in revulsion when he pictures Junkrat's soot-smudged fingers staining the edges of the beautiful paper he'd write upon, and he ponders delicate _wagashi_ , but he's seen Junkrat eat raw lizards, and sweets that refined should not be wasted on a palate like that. He finds himself trawling Athena, Junkrat's combat records and his criminal history, all for traces of Junkrat, too stubborn to ask him himself.

He looks at blurry photographs by civilians of Junkrat leaving successful heists at big banks. He reads about Australia, before the explosion. About large birds and venomous snakes and hot deserts. He reads about Māori culture, clumsily rehearsing a nervous “ _kia ora_ ” in the mirror, flinching when he worries if it would be insensitive to refuse to participate in _hongi_ if only because he'd rather die than have his forehead touch Junkrat's. He visits Genji in the infirmary, bedridden and bored, playing handheld games with D.Va and Tracer, exasperatedly exclaiming he wishes Junkrat had just left him to die when they beat him again. He allows himself, after these visits, the private indulgence of smiling, his eyes closed and breath leaving his lungs in a deep, tired exhale, relieved and exhausted.  
Genji is safe. The only loose end is the thank you for saving him.

 

He sees Junkrat, on the occasion, but has made it clear to himself that Junkrat is to be avoided until Hanzo finds a proper, righteous display of gratitude. He steers clear of where he knows Junkrat will be, and spends all his spare time in the one place he knows Junkrat would never go: target practice.

 

The arrow spears the training robot's head with a satisfying clink. The robot sparks, fizzles and loses its hovering ability, crashing onto its side. Hanzo is bracing the bot with his foot and to yank the arrow out when door slides open. Hanzo initially pays it no mind and begins to inspect the arrowhead, assuming it is McCree, who comes here almost as often as he can to do his two favorite things: drink and shoot. When the gait of the footsteps doesn't come with a jangle of spurs, he turns around, and almost instantaneously is face to face with Junkrat. Face to chest. Junkrat is almost a foot taller than him when not hunched over by the encumbering weight of his tire.

Freakishly tall, he notes, eyes traveling up, past collarbones, past the cords of his throat to his beaming, manic face, smiley and bright eyed as ever. “Say! If it ain't Shimada the First! I definitely did _not_ come here lookin' for you.”

“So you came to improve your aim, finally?” Hanzo quips with a haughty smirk, and Junkrat scoffs.

“Aiming's overrated.”

“You came to bother me, then,” Hanzo deducts, calmly knocking another arrow. He pulls the bowstring back flush against his cheek. His eyes are trained on the target, brow furrowed with concentration, but Junkrat still lurks in his peripheral like the boogeyman. He exhales as the arrow flies forward, nearly whistling as it lodges itself perfectly between the sensor nodes of the bot, dropping it with astounding momentum. He looks at Junkrat, confident, and Junkrat shrugs.

“I came 'cause I expected a 'thank you.' Even your brother was nice enough to throw a simple little 'ta' my way, and he's playin' science experiment with his guts spread out on the table for the good doctor down in the sickbay. Figured you would early on, but for all your 'honor' an' 'dignity' an' 'snooty bastard' stuff, you're one piss-headed bogan.”

Hanzo doesn't necessarily need to know what a bogan is to feel like one. He looks away, worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth. “Thank you,” he murmurs. The words feel bad in his mouth, like mealy apples, like rotten shellfish. “I wanted to prepare something for you,” he reasons, excusing his latency. “Everything I even fathomed you enjoying seemed almost…offensively practical,” he admitted. He tries not to smile—he knows it'll read as a sneer, a smirk, but he can't help it when he thinks about him, in his desperation, pondering what kind of screwdriver or wirecutter Junkrat would best like. Junkrat snorts in laughter too, hand rising to card through his messy hair, freshly singed from this morning's experiments.

“Ain't you a charmer! 'S all good, mate. Just wanted a proper thank you, in person and everythin'...but I wouldn't mind snatchin' that off your hands.” Hanzo looks for the object of Junkrat's affections—Junkrat seems to be staring intently at him, but Hanzo does not know what Junkrat wants until he jabs a finger at it.

Junkrat seems to be infatuated with the tiny blue _omamori_ hanging from Hanzo's belt. It's tattered and worn, but still not opened or ripped. He clips it off his belt and deftly drops it into Junkrat's mismatched hands, and Junkrat snatches it away and proudly hangs it from the pouch at his hip.

Hanzo chuckles. Junkrat's eccentricity is easy to appreciate once he decides not to be so invested in despising it. He stops mid chuckle, immediately trying to regain his passivity, and Junkrat quips, “mate, you look like you swallowed a toad.”

“Humor is empty in a mindless universe devoid of any true standard of consistency,” Hanzo snaps. Junkrat blinks at him and murmurs an awed “ah.” As soon as the sound leaves his mouth, they're both laughing.

Hanzo's quick few chuckles immediately die out, but Junkrat's practically cackling, holding his stomach and Hanzo's shoulder for support, wheezing.

“It was not that funny.”

“Fair dinkum, mate? You're a bloody _riot_ when you wanna be!”

“Fair dinkum…?” Hanzo repeats, his voice as pale as his face.

“Yeah. At first, I couldn't stand you, and I was sittin' here thinkin', _aw, well, this guy's gonna be a proper toff,_ and I couldn't wait until I maybe got to work with you so we could have a happy little 'accident' and you might ' _accidentally_ ' blow up, but then we did work together, and the whole thing with the building, and hell, mate, I'm glad it happened. Better be trapped under a big pile of brick with a handsome bloke with fancy hair and some good jokes than that monkey or that icy sheila who hates my guts.”

Hanzo feels his face flush, warmth spreading across his regal cheekbones, his nose, his ears. He turns his head away from Junkrat, feigning putting his bow back into its case. “Thank you Junkra—Jamison. I do admit, I...regrettably misjudged you as well. You might be a petty criminal, a loud oaf and a rat of a thief, but you--” and there's that flash again, the gold tooth glinting in the sterile light of the training room from Junkrat's grin. “But you are acceptable, Jamison Atea Mahana Fawkes.”

Junkrat gapes at him. He blinks a few times, and its his turn to flush, a twinge of color blooming across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. “Didn't expect you to remember the whole thing.”

“You are hard to forget.”

“Now you're just sweet-talkin' me.”

“Perhaps.”

Junkrat is closer, now, and Hanzo can catch flashes of the gold when Junkrat talks. “Y'know what a _pash rash_ is, Hanzo?”

Hanzo feels like he ought to politely but firmly excuse himself and return to his quarters. He is suddenly hyperaware of his silk hairtie sliding over his exposed shoulder, his gi pulled down to assist in his archery, and Junkrat's metal fingers clumsily creeping towards his own.

“I do not.”

“'S when you kiss a bloke, but he's got a beard, so your face gets all scratchy.”

Hanzo looks at Junkrat very intently. Gold eyes. Gold tooth. Nice smile. There's some handsome contours and features hiding underneath the soot. He swipes across Junkrat's cheekbone with his thumb, exposing skin underneath. Wasn't so bad. Besides, there's no ash near his mouth.

He's very fiery. Luckily, dragons don't mind fire.

“Ah. Thank you for telling me.”

Hanzo surprises them both by kissing Junkrat first.


End file.
